Blindness
Authors: Ginger Scott
Tags: #Romance, #college, #angst, #forbidden romance, #college romance, #New Adult, #triangle love story, #motocross love, #ginger scott
BLINDNESS
A novel
By Ginger Scott
Text copyright © 2014 Ginger Scott (Ginger
Eiden)
Smashwords Edition
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including
information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in
writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who
may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents either are products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely
coincidental.
Ginger Scott
This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook my not be re-sold or given away to other
people. If you would like to share this book with another person,
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purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of
this author.
For Jack.
You set the bar really high.
Contents:
Prologue: I Just Got to Know You…
Chapter 1: Trevor Appleton’s Girl
Chapter 2: Timing Is Everything
Chapter 7: The Mask I’m Wearing
Chapter 11: Rules of Engagement
Chapter 13: What’s Good for You
Chapter 14: Reasons to Be Thankful
Chapter 18: Welcome to Louisville
Chapter 20: The Prettiest of Pictures
Prologue:
I Just Got to Know You…
People are thoughtless. Half of the stupid
rituals they do are just by rote—rehearsed feigned attempts at
human kindness done with their own best interests in mind.
They show up to weddings to make sure they
get credit for being there with the boss or with the rich-ass
relative—or perhaps for the time when they invite the bride to
their wedding. They donate their clothes to the needy just to write
them off on their taxes. They write the big fat check just so they
can see their name embossed in gold on the ornate charity gala
program. And they volunteer at the soup kitchen so they can talk
about how they
really understand the poor
, like they have
any clue what it feels like to not be able to feed your family.
My house is filled with thoughtless
people.
They won’t talk to me, but I can sense their
fake sympathy by the half-smiles they shoot my way from across the
living room. They hug me, even though my arms stay limp, dangling
at my sides. Grown men and women—who I don’t even know—wipe tears
from their own eyes and offer me tissues, expecting me to mirror
their expressions. I don’t. I just stare them in the face, and
recite my own rehearsed and feigned attempt at human kindness.
“Thank you for coming,” I say. “It would mean
a lot to him to know you came.”
I say these words even though it wouldn’t. My
father, Mac Hudson, didn’t like people. He didn’t trust them, and
for good reason. Most of the humans he dealt with were the lowest
form—drug dealers, gun smugglers, thieves, gang leaders—if I pulled
together a slideshow of the people in my father’s life over the
last 20 years, it would be filled with colorful characters, most of
them doing hard time at the federal prison thanks to their
connection with Mac Hudson.
I was seven years old the first time I met my
father. He didn’t really know I existed until then. Mom was a bit
of a mess. Sabrina Ferris was bipolar, and when life was good, she
liked to supplement it with a lot of meth. Problem was, her lows
were just the opposite. I don’t remember much, just the constant
scratching at her skin and pulling at her hair. She had these tics,
where her entire body would jerk. I’m sure it wasn’t always that
way—I know now her addiction ruined her mind and body. But as a
small child, that was all I knew—all I ever saw.
It was normal.
She was never cruel or physically abusive,
quite the opposite, actually. When she was on a high, she’d spend
thousands of dollars buying me toys and candy, and anything else I
wanted. Of course, she charged it all to credit cards and built
mountains of debt, or committed identity theft. But I didn’t know
about all that; I just enjoyed my toys, and played until midnight,
my mom often encouraging me to stay up until morning.
When she crashed, she would just disappear
for days, either locking herself in her room, or leaving me with
the neighbor while she ran away…
somewhere
. Those times left
less of an impression. They were filled with emptiness. And my new
toys didn’t feel the same when mom wasn’t there. Instead, they felt
dirty.
The day she pulled up in front of Mac
Hudson’s house was one of her lowest. I can close my eyes and still
see the sores on her arms and face. I hid behind her leg, clinging
to the bottom of her T-shirt with both hands. Mac opened the door.
I remember them talking, she told him I was his daughter, and they
argued. Then I remember watching her run from the porch, sprinting
to her car, and tossing my small backpack of clothing from her
window while she sped away.
Mac and I sat on that porch, several feet
apart, while I cried for hours. He had no clue what to do with a
seven-year-old girl, let alone one who had just experienced her
first broken heart. When he finally stood up, he asked me if I
wanted to come inside for a sandwich. I was alone in the world, so
I did. And somewhere along the way, while I sat at the banged-up
oak table in the middle of Mac’s kitchen, I stopped crying. And I
never cried another tear for Sabrina Ferris.
Life with Mac went on much like this for
years. He fumbled his way through parenting, often calling on
friends to watch me while he went to work. I knew most of the beat
cops in Louisville by the time I was ten; they’d all taken turns
babysitting me. When I got my period, Mac called on his partner,
Missy, to teach me about tampons and take me shopping for pads and
panty liners.
By the time I started high school, Mac had
become a detective, which meant his time at home was even less. We
were more acquaintances than we were father and daughter. I did
most of the grocery shopping, calling him once a week just to find
out what he wanted me to put in the fridge. I ate my dinners at the
table alone, then I would sit up in my room to finish my homework,
until I heard Mac’s keys slide across the counter letting me know
he was home. I’d pop my head out to say goodnight, and he’d promise
not to make too much noise with the TV.
I was in the art club, and we sometimes had
gallery shows. Mac usually sent one of his colleagues while he was
busy working a case. I can picture every face belonging to a badge
sitting in the front row for one of my orchestra performances. I
wasn’t on a sports team that really called for fans—I golfed—so I
usually played my tournaments and just let Mac know how I did the
next morning. He’d usually nod, and say something gruff, or simple,
like “Good job.”
Looking back, I suppose I missed out on a lot
of father-daughter bonding. But I didn’t know that at the time. It
was just life, the life I knew. And I existed, happily.
But things changed when I turned 17. I had a
boyfriend, my first, really. My few friends at school all had
boyfriends, and I wanted one too. His name was Wes. I didn’t really
go on dates with him—honestly the thought of asking Mac if I could,
of acknowledging to Mac any interest I had in boys, made my stomach
sink. Wes would drive me home after school and make out with me in
his car or in the halls after classes let out. I loved him. Or
whatever-I-thought-love-was-ed
him. Wes was cute and
popular, and he made me feel beautiful. I liked the attention I got
when I kissed him at school, the jealous stares from other girls. I
liked the way my insides felt when he held my hand. And I liked
kissing him. I liked kissing him a lot.
Until I didn’t.
The afternoon after
it
happened, I was
propped up on my elbows, scribbling on my math worksheet, and
wincing from the pain on my right cheek. My door was shut, my lamp
was on, and I was powering through. It was just like a fight with
my girlfriends when I was little. I worked through things on my
own, here in my room, and then eventually we were friends again. I
figured I’d just wait, and eventually I’d be Wes’s girlfriend
again—or I wouldn’t. I was okay either way.
I don’t know what made Mac open my door. In
the ten years we’d lived together, I could count on one hand the
number of times he stepped foot in my room. But something drew him
in that night, and when his weathered eyes zeroed in on the purple
puffiness, he changed.
He asked who hurt me, and I said I fell. He
asked again, and I got quiet. When he charged to me, lifted my chin
with his giant hand, and stared me in the eyes, his nostrils
flaring—I whimpered. Not from pain, but from a crack in my
emotional armor. This wasn’t how these things worked out. Mac
wasn’t a part of this, and he was never supposed to know.
“Name,” he said, his breath heavy, but
controlled. I shunned, and he asked again, louder, squeezing my
chin with a little force now.
“Name!” he yelled.
The tear that ran over my bruised cheek
burned as it slid, carving a hot and painful path to my top lip,
which quivered as soon as it reached it.
“Wes Nieves,” I croaked out.
Mac was gone at my words. Every door between
where I lay and his pickup were left open along his trail. He was
gone for hours. I was in the kitchen after midnight, boiling water
for pasta when I finally heard the rumble of his truck out front. I
turned the burner on low, and walked to the edge of the kitchen
facing the hall to the front door. I was nervous about what his
reaction would be when he came in. I watched him close the door
behind him and hang his jacket on the hook. I watched him slide his
work boots from his feet and pull his wallet, keys and badge from
his pockets, tossing them in the bowl by the front door. Then I
watched him unfasten his holster and wrap his gun before he walked
in the opposite direction to his bedroom.
I went back to my pasta and was mixing in a
can of sauce when Mac slid the chair out at the table. We didn’t
speak. I pulled two bowls from the cupboard and poured equal parts
of the noodles in each. I slid one bowl to Mac, and he just picked
up his fork and started to eat. No eye contact. No words—only this
strange, new kind of silence.
I never spoke to Wes again, and he took the
long route to classes just to avoid me. Mac and I never spoke about
it, either. But he started showing up to things after that day. In
fact, for the next year, there was hardly an event in my life that
Mac Hudson wasn’t front and center for. I had gone from Charlotte
Ferris, roommate—to Charlie Hudson, Mac Hudson’s daughter, all
because some douchebag hit me. It was the most horrible and most
amazing thing to ever have happened to me. I’d been abused, yes…but
I came out the other end with a father—a
real
father.
Mac joked with me, laughed with me, and
filmed my stupid golf matches. He took me out for my
18
th
birthday, because no other boy was good enough. And
before my prom, he was the one who helped me curl my golden brown
hair into spirals (though it took him hours). He was my rock—my
very unexpected but oh-so-treasured rock. He was suddenly the one
person in life who wouldn’t let me down. And I think that’s why I
miss him so goddamned much today.
A funeral. A wake. In our house. And I’m
alone. My best friend—my dad—six feet under, buried in dirt. And
the fake assholes bringing me flowers, frozen meals, false promises
that one day it would hurt less—I just want to throw them all out
and let the door hit them on the way. Just like Mac would have
wanted.